


dark and deep inside this ancient heart

by ships_to_sail



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anxiety, Domestic Fluff, Lullabies, M/M, Night Terrors, Singing, soft boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-19 02:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22403680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail
Summary: David’s breaths are still a little shaky as the dust across Patrick’s t-shirt. Patrick wraps one arm around David’s neck, burying his hand in David’s hair and scraping nails gently across his scalp. The other comes up and laces with David’s, resting their hands together on Patrick’s lower belly. It’s odd to hold David’s hand without his rings on, unguarded and unfettered access to every inch of skin. He traces gentle fingers over the places where the rings normally sit, and he starts to hum.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 15
Kudos: 228





	dark and deep inside this ancient heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storieswelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storieswelove/gifts), [Aulauem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aulauem/gifts).



> for storieswelove and Aulauem, who deserve as many soft things as possible. 
> 
> Double warning to check your tags, just in case you need to take care of you! 
> 
> Also, you can find a playlist for [this fic here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6GG29yL7ZmTa4GkBLbMriE?si=q7wDh9muTPy7fu2XWjmnzQ)

The clock rolls over to 3:38 and Patrick wakes up to David thrashing in the bed next to him. He’s making a low, guttural moaning sound in the back of his throat, and he’s breathing hard and fast. There are tears pouring down his cheeks and his mouth is set in a grimace that pierces something deep inside Patrick. Patrick’s mind is still swimming with sleep, but his body hops into action, one hand on David’s chest while the other grabs at his shoulder, trying to get him to slow his moving limbs. His voice is low, authoritative and laced with a calm he does not feel.

“David? David, it’s Patrick. You’re at my apartment. Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.” He says it again, and a third time, before David’s body goes still but his eyes spring open and he sits up, eyes wide. Patrick keeps his hand on David’s chest, but sits back on the bed to give him space. His other hand goes to David’s thigh, pressing gently on his knee cap in a steady, even rhythm. The contact gives David a point to focus on, and Patrick notices him timing his breathing with the intermittent pressure.

He catches David’s eye and they mirror one another’s breathing until David’s calmed down enough to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, and then his shoulders crumple forward into a heavy series of sobs. 

“Woah, hey come here,” Patrick wraps him into his chest, broad palms pressed into the bare skin of his back. Patrick can feel grit on his skin, a fine layer of evaporated sweat, and he wants to wipe if off of David, wants to grab the softest towel and gently erase every last physical remnant of his terror. But he knows he can’t, not right now, so he pulls David a little closer and presses a series of kisses onto his forehead, the top of his head, the shell of his ear. He keeps up a steady, low stream of calm words, sometimes just little sounds that put comfort and calm into all the places their skin meets. 

Patrick doesn’t bother to keep track of the time, but the light in their apartment has stretched from black to dusty blue by the time David’s breathing has returned to normal, his sobs tapering off. Patrick continues to rub his hands up and David’s back, across the nape of his neck, down onto his hips, as many points of contact as he can manage until David feels comfortable being back in his own skin again.

“You want to talk about it?” Patrick asks tentatively.

David stiffens in his arms, and he’s just about to take it back when David speaks, his voice scratchy and rough, breaking on the first few syllables. “It was. Bad.”

Patrick nods. “I kind of got that.”

“No, Patrick.  _ Bad _ .” And he nestles down a little further into the crook of Patrick’s neck, presses himself more fully against his fiancé, like he can make their molecules take up the same space, can fuse them together if he just wills it so.

“It’s okay, David. You’re okay.” David nods a little, but his body stays tense. Patrick hesitates, chewing on the inside of his lip. “You know it’s always going to be okay, right?”

He feels David shake his head, forehead pressing into Patrick’s sternum. “You don’t know that,” and his voice is back on the edge of tears.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Patrick says quickly, because he is. He knows that David is aware more than a lot of people how quickly life can be completely turned upside down, for better and most definitely for worse. “How about this. I’m always going to be here, so even if it’s not okay, we’ll be not okay together.”

He feels David relax by half a percent. “Promise?” And there’s a small, dark thing living in the question, something Patrick thought they’d long since laid to rest, but. If David knows loss, Patrick knows the way the darkest hours can make all the worst parts of your mind come raging back to life. So he takes a deep, slow breath and presses a long kiss into David’s curls.

“Absolutely.” He puts every ounce of forever into his voice, and feels that small dark thing shrivel as David collapses his weight more fully against Patrick. “Come on, let’s lay down.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” David says, even as he’s yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Then don’t. Just — come here.” Patrick lays back against the headboard and pulls David into him again, a mirror of the way they were just sitting, but longer, laid out, more relaxed. The mattress seems to wrap around them and for the millionth time Patrick says a silent thank you to David for actually winning the memory foam mattress argument. 

David’s breaths are still a little shaky as the dust across Patrick’s t-shirt. Patrick wraps one arm around David’s neck, burying his hand in David’s hair and scraping nails gently across his scalp. The other comes up and laces with David’s, resting their hands together on Patrick’s lower belly. It’s odd to hold David’s hand without his rings on, unguarded and unfettered access to every inch of skin. He traces gentle fingers over the places where the rings normally sit, and he starts to hum.

He cycles through half a dozen songs, mostly the choruses and bridges, a couple of lines he finds deeply unforgettable

_ lay me down/lay me soft and low/lay me down a pallet on your floor  _ and  _ I’ll find you/in the morning sun/and when the night/is new,  _ and the more he sings the more David melts into him. Sometimes David will ask him for a repeat, a quiet, soft:

“Again?”

And Patrick just sings the lines again. He’d sing the same song until his voice ran out if it’s what David asked for. He gets through a few lesser known verses of his favorite childhood lullaby, and David’s breath is long and steady and even. Patrick thinks he’s finally nodded off when he speaks, his voice thick with sleep. 

“That’s a sad song.”

Patrick nods. “Yeah. It is, kind of.”

“It’s a pretty song.”

“It is.”

“You’re a pretty song.”

“Go to sleep David.” He shifts, his cheek pressing into the soft bit of flesh just above Patrick’s heart. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too.” 

He watches David sleep through his first two alarms and his third emergency backup, the early golden light in the apartment setting fire to the brand new day. 


End file.
